


Is That... Flannel?

by mustlovemustypages



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Minor Character Death, Smallville - Freeform, Stiles Wears Glasses, Stiles/Lydia Fest, Stydia, Superheroes, Superman - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7575709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mustlovemustypages/pseuds/mustlovemustypages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Otherwise known as the Superhero AU where Stiles is Clark Kent/Superman and Lydia is Lois Lane. </p><p>-----------------------------------------</p><p>“Is that… flannel?” Leaning in closer, she looked at the material in disbelief.</p><p>“Indeed.” He adjusted the blue, plaid shirt and re-tucked an errant piece which had escaped the security of his brown leather belt. Paired with khakis and dark brown shoes, it did fit dress code requirements of business casual, but Lydia felt her right eye twitch almost imperceptibly at the idea of wearing flannel to work. Her mind was filled with horrible images of plaid dresses and overall paint suits, completely distracting her to the point that when Stiles offered up his arm saying, “It’s very soft. Want to feel?” Lydia complied without a second thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is That... Flannel?

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the recent resurgence of Superman, my love of all things Smallville, Dylan O'Brien wearing glasses, and the absolute perfection that is Lydia Martin. 
> 
> Written for Stiles/Lydia Fest. 
> 
> Prompt: Superhero AU

Lydia Martin crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips in irritation. “Absolutely not!”

The room went silent. A moment before, everyone had been chattering at their desks like usual, but two words from the redhead and all conversation dropped off.

Of course, Lydia Martin was never one to balk at being the center of attention. She just popped up from her chair and followed the Editor-in-Chief to his office, arguing all the way with a vocabulary half of which her fellow reporters probably didn’t even recognize as English.

When they came to a halt at a pair of big glass doors, Derek Hale, the Daily Planet’s long-running Chief and overall bringer of doom, paused and turned around to face his employee. “There is no debate.” He tapped on his name, which had been painted in sleek, black letters on his translucent office door. “Until such a time where you are in charge, I make the assignments and you follow my instructions.”

Lydia sniffed. “When my quality of work suffers due to unsuitable arrangements…”

Her boss gave a feral grin. “If such a thing does occur, I look forward to reading your neatly typed grievance complete with sources and all the necessary proof.” He pulled open his door and gave Lydia a knowing look. “But from what I’ve seen, you and he are two of the best reporters the Daily Planet has ever had and I can’t imagine something as trivial as this will stand in your way of getting the job done to your usual standards.”

“With all respect intended, sir, I achieve my usual standards whilst _working alone_.”

“Well, Ms. Martin, due to the clout of this assignment, your usual standards aren't going to be good enough. I need two sets of eyes working on this, and that's final.”

With that, Derek Hale swept into his office, leaving Lydia Martin, for the first time in the rest of the office’s memory, without a single thing to say.

Such an occurrence didn’t last for long, though, with barely a brief second passing, causing most to believe that it had just been in their imagination that Lydia Martin had been at a loss for words. “Stilinski!”

Secretly glad that they were fortunate enough to not have that name, everyone went back to work and the rumbling of chatter, although quieter than before, resumed on the Daily Planet’s floor.

“Yes?”

Having been looking in front of her for the little nuisance, the voice behind her came as quite a shock and Lydia couldn’t help but jump in surprise. Whirling around, she pinned the voice’s owner with her best glare. “I want to make it clear that if this new… partnership, which Hale seems to think is such a brilliant idea, results in anything less than a perfect story, someone will pay.” No one in the office questioned who that _someone_ would be, least of all Stiles Stilinski.

Stiles, having become used to her prickly manner over the past few months, nodded in understanding and flashed his brightest smile.

Lydia raked her eyes over him slowly, analyzing as she went. When she got to his shirt, she frowned. “Is that… flannel?” Leaning in closer, she looked at the material in disbelief.

“Indeed.” He adjusted the blue, plaid shirt and re-tucked an errant piece which had escaped the security of his brown leather belt. Paired with khakis and dark brown shoes, it _did_ fit dress code requirements of business casual, but Lydia felt her right eye twitch almost imperceptibly at the idea of wearing flannel to work. Her mind was filled with horrible images of plaid dresses and jean overalls serving as paint suits, completely distracting her to the point that when Stiles offered up his arm saying, “It’s very soft. Want to feel?” Lydia complied without a second thought.

It _was_ quite soft, she had to admit. It was after a considerable amount of time had passed that Lydia realized she was still petting the reporter’s arm, and she yanked her own arm back so fast that she threw herself off balance. Teetering on her heels, it was only when Stiles grabbed her shoulder that she regained her balance. He dropped his arm almost instantly after seeing she wasn’t in danger, but not before she got a sudden feeling of deja vu at the gesture. “Thanks,” she said briskly, shaking off the ridiculous notion and starting for the doors on the far side of the office that would take them outside. She didn’t bother to turn around to see if Stiles was following. “Are you coming?”

“Yes, ma’am” was the response she got, and dang it, his country boy habit was annoyingly charming. 

She stopped after reaching the elevator and double-checked her purse to make sure she had all of her necessary supplies inside. Seconds later her companion joined her, huffing a bit, and Lydia prided herself silently on being able to walk (and even run when the situation called for it) impossibly fast in her high-heeled designer shoes. It was a skill she had acquired with years of practice. 

She had to bite back an unbidden smile at the obvious astonishment on her fellow reporter's face, but it didn’t do anything to push down the small warmth she felt heating her cheeks. “Let’s go get ourselves a story, Stilinski,” she said, before entering the elevator and taking the brief moment when her back was turned to compose herself. 

* * *

Stiles knew that he was lucky to have gotten a job at the Daily Planet straight out of college. Despite his excellent grades and stellar recommendations, it was still hard for people to look past the rural stereotype and see him for his true potential. It wasn’t as though he had shown up to interviews in muddy work boots and a Carhartt jacket or anything. No, he had worn professional suits and ties like everyone else, thank you very much.

It didn’t matter how nice he looked or how great his references were, though. Those interviewing him always honed in on the fact that he had attended high school in Beacon Hills, California and went to a local (rural) university.

He understood their hesitation to hire someone who, for all intents and purposes, seemed like a naïve country boy who wouldn’t last a week in the big city. More than anything, he wanted to shout at them was that he was anything but a farmer born in the small town of Beacon Hills.

For some reason, though, he suspected that telling his interviewers he wasn't born in Beacon Hills at all but rather on an extinct, alien planet wasn’t going be any better at convincing them to hire him. Also, it wasn’t like he could put down flying powers, superhuman strength, and x-ray vision alongside his other “skills” like typing and communication, no matter how impressive they may be.

Thankfully, one man had given him a chance.

At the end of his interview at the Daily Planet, Stiles was sure that, like all of the others, he would be politely shot down. However, instead, Editor-in-Chief, Derek Hale, had looked at him for a solid minute before tossing him a stack of papers that would be his first assignment and grumbling, “Don’t let me down.”

And for the past six months, Stiles had done his best to do just that.

Not just at work either, but in helping to clean up the streets which had recently become plagued with an uptick in crime. Whenever he wasn’t reporting, he was geared up in a blue spandex suit trying to save the city from those who wanted to hurt it most.

Scott McCall, his best friend, called the suit a “chic magnet." Originally meant in jest, Stiles soon realized how accurate his friend really was. Although it was probably more because of his superhuman abilities rather than his costume, in the past six months his superhero counterpart had managed to attract a wide fan base comprised mostly of the female portion of the city's population. Even though the idea kind of made him uncomfortable, he couldn’t deny that over the past few months Superman had become sort of a romanticized icon in the eyes of Metropolis. 

Even a particular redhead had fallen for Superman's charming ways. The first time he'd saved her was during his second week in the city when Lydia Martin had gotten caught in the psychopathic Dread Doctors crosshairs while working on a piece for the Daily Planet. He had helped her a few other times since then, and on the last occasion, she'd even tried to kiss him. Scott had slapped him upside the head when he'd heard that Stiles had turned her down, but there was just something not right about accepting a kiss while pretending to be someone he wasn't.

Part of Stiles had hoped that there would be some sort of transference of attraction to his human persona, but he was in no such luck. While Lydia Martin adored Superman, she seemed to hate Stiles Stilinski. At first, he thought maybe it was because he had written a story that had landed her boyfriend-at-the-time in jail, but no, he had come to realize that it was just his mere presence that irked her. His proof of this was that Scott had also worked on the story with Stiles, as the photographer, but Lydia showed no ill will towards _him._

Stiles knew deep down that in the long-run it was probably better that only Scott knew his secret. He already felt guilty enough that he had put his best friend in harm’s way, even with Scott willingly accepting the risk. Telling Lydia would be purely selfish on Stiles' part, and anyways, if she ever found out that Superman was really Stiles Stilinski in disguise, she would probably come to hate the caped crusader just as much as the man himself.

“Taxi or subway?”

Stiles hadn’t even realized that they had left the building until Lydia asked him that question. Slow to respond, he looked around before replying, “Taxi, if you don’t mind. Subways give me the heebie-jeebies.” He thought about how the Dread Doctors had kidnapped Lydia from the subway and his hand tightened into a fist.

Lydia must have been having a similar train of the thought because she visibly relaxed at his decision. “I know what you mean.”

In record time, Lydia successfully hailed a cab and after giving the driver their destination – a corporate office on the other side of the city – they were on their way.

It was less than a minute into the ride when Stiles felt something on his face and he jerked back to see Lydia Martin's hand pushing his glasses up his nose. “It really bothers me when you let them fall down,” she stated, voice unusually high but none the less superior. “You should really think about getting contact lenses.”

“Do I really look that bad with glasses?” he joked.

“No!” Lydia assured him, prompting the cabbie up front to chortle in laughter at her quickness to respond. She bit her lip and looked away, speaking more quietly in a very un-Lydia-like manner. “No. It just seems like it would be easier for you.”

“I’ve tried them before. It turns out I’m allergic.” Stiles straightened his glasses again out of habit even though they had already been fixed. More like they were his only disguise separating him from Superman. It was really unbelievable how a pair of glasses could transform a person’s face. In truth, if Lydia had taken them right then, she would have seen that they didn’t even have a prescription; the lenses were simply made out of cheap glass.

Thankfully oblivious to his thoughts, Lydia just gave her condolences for his horrible genetics. 

Stiles smiled inwardly at just how close to the mark she really was.

* * *

They were riding along in silence and only half-way to their destination when Stiles suddenly yelled out, “Stop here!”

The cab immediately jerked to a halt, much to the annoyance of Lydia as well as all of the honking horns behind them.

“What on earth-" Lydia started to say, but before she could finish asking him what he was doing, Stiles had exited the car and was running away.

Correction. He was not running _away_ , per say, but rather running _towards_ something. _Something that was on fire._

Eyes widening at the sight, Lydia pulled out her wallet and threw a few dollar bills at the cab driver. She couldn’t see where Stiles had gone, but she cautiously headed in the directions of the flames, which she soon saw were engulfing a city transportation bus that had crashed over onto its side. There were a few passengers that had made it out and were scrambling away from the wreck.

Lydia looked at the fire when, as if appearing out of nowhere, she saw a shape emerging from the flames. Lydia held up both hands in front of her face as the fire roared even stronger, a wave of heat crashing over her. When she lowered her hands, the shape was gone. She blinked twice as if the shape would return, before realizing that someone was now standing beside her.

She turned to see Stiles, a young woman in his arms. As he set her down on the ground, Lydia knelt beside the woman, checking her for over for injuries. It looked like her arms had been burned, but there was nothing too severe. She was unconscious so Lydia checked to make sure she had a pulse and was still breathing.

“Stiles, how did you get her out of there?” Lydia asked, pulling off her jacket and placing it over the woman since her clothes had been burned to a literal crisp. 

When she got no response, Lydia looked up to see Stiles staring into the flames intently. He hadn’t heard a word she’d said. To get his attention she jabbed at his leg, and slowly but surely he redirected his gaze towards her. “Is she going to be okay?” he asked, brows furrowed in concern.

Both of them looked back to the woman. “I think so,” Lydia murmured, “But I’m no medical expert.”

“Please, Lydia, you’re the expert on everything.”

Despite the situation, Lydia smiled at the compliment. Then she frowned and repeated her earlier question. “Stiles… how did you get her out of the fire?” Although his clothes were a little damaged, his skin looked completely unharmed.

A flash of alarm crossed over Stiles' face, but it was gone in an instant. He shrugged. “She’d managed to crawl out somehow. I just carried her over here,” Stiles replied, although the answer sounded half-hearted at best. Then something caught his attention, and he started walking towards the bus again.

Lydia yelled for him to come back, but he had already disappeared around the burning vehicle. By now, other cars had stopped and more people were gathering around. Someone asked Lydia if there was anything they could do. She was in the process of telling them to call 9-11 when there was a sudden explosion, drowning out all other noise.

A sharp pain hit Lydia square in the head, and after that the world seemed to be moving in slow motion. The last thing she thought was that she hoped Stiles was okay, and then the very ground beneath her tilted upwards as everything quickly faded to black.

* * *

“Keep me updated on her progress,” Derek said, then promptly hung up the phone. He hadn’t even asked if Stiles was staying at the hospital, just assuming that he wasn’t going to be leaving Lydia’s side.

Not that he wasn’t correct. After the initial check by the doctor, the nurse on duty had let him sit by her bedside and he’d only left it this once to make some phone calls. First was to Scott who was out on an assignment and had promised to come as soon as he could. Next was to their boss, who, surprisingly, had been much more concerned than Stiles had ever imagined him capable. It was almost as if he _cared_.

However, Stiles would have plenty of time in the future to analyze the intricacies of the brick wall that was Derek Hale. Currently, he had much more pressing concerns. Namely, the unconscious redhead who was sporting a nasty gash on her forehead and an arm that the doctor suspected was broken.

It had been almost six hours ago that they were riding in the taxi. Five since the ambulance and police had arrived at the scene of the bus crash and further explosion. Three since the police had asked their questions of all of the surviving victims.

 _Surviving_ being the key word that threatened to tear a hole in Stiles' gut. It was bad enough that he hadn’t been able to reach all of the bus passengers in time; he'd only managed to get out a few before the bus had exploded. The rest of the passengers had died, and several of those on the sidewalk, including Lydia, had been injured.

Two hours since the doctor had made his examination of Lydia and said that she would be fine.

Until that point, Stiles had been running on pure adrenaline, doing what he could to help, while also staying enough out of the way that no one would get suspicious and ask him the wrong questions. When the doctor told him that Lydia would be alright, though, he’d felt all of his energy drain out of him. It left him feeling cold and numb. If Lydia were awake, she’d probably diagnose him with delayed shock and then promptly list off all of his symptoms. 

Stiles leaned his forearms against the vending machine in front of him. After a moment, he let his forehead fall against it too and closed his eyes. It wasn’t like he hadn’t failed to save someone before. It was something that he’d accepted a long time ago – he couldn’t save everyone, but he could save most if he tried hard enough.

The difference, he realized, was that this was the first time that he’d almost lost someone he cared about.

The vending machine, which had been making a faint whirring sound, finally stopped. Lifting his head, he saw his purchased cup of coffee now full and hastily picked it up.

He didn’t wait for it to cool down, taking a long gulp, and made his way back to Lydia’s room. On the way, he passed by several people still waiting to hear news about their own family and friends. 

Stiles took one last look down the hallway, thinking about all of those people who had still been on the bus, and quietly closed the hospital room door.

“Hey,” a faint voice said.

Startled, Stiles almost spilled his coffee in his haste to turn around. Placing a hand over his rapidly beating heart, he made his way over to the bed. “Geez Lydia, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

Lydia did not look amused at his exaggeration. “Despite your penchant for junk food, you are a young and healthy man,” Lydia replied, her voice light and breathy. “The most I could have given you was a panic attack.”

Stiles almost rolled his eyes. She’d barely been awake a few minutes and already she was putting him in his place. He went to reclaim his chair beside her bed but then hesitated. “Can I…?” he asked, motioning to the chair.

Now Lydia _did_ roll her eyes. “Stiles, sit down.”

Huffing, Stiles obeyed and sat. At a loss for what to say next, he took a sip of his coffee. It was very terrible, but coming from a hospital vending machine, it wasn’t as if he was surprised.

“I see your flannel held up.”

“What?” Stiles asked, confused until he noticed where Lydia’s attention had gone. Looking down, he saw that, indeed, his shirt had held up remarkably well considering what he had been through today. Just a few holes and one melted button. “Huh. I guess so.” He would have to write a good review for the company on Amazon when he got home.

“I’m going to need some explanation.” Without looking up, he knew Lydia was no longer focused on his shirt. Stiles went to take another sip of coffee and then realized he had already drunk it all. _Traitor._

There was some rustling of blankets, and when he looked up, Lydia was trying to lean forward. “Whoa, hey,” he said, standing and gently easing her back down, careful of her bandaged arm. Her back had just hit the pillows again when suddenly she was yanking his glasses off his face.

It dawned on him that he'd been tricked, and Stiles went to cover up his face when he realized that Lydia wasn’t looking at him at all. Maybe she didn’t recognize…

“These are really the worst disguise ever,” she exclaimed, waving his glasses in the air. Alright, so maybe she _did_ recognize him.

Stiles only took a moment to process what had just happened before he realized he'd been insulted. “Hey! They kept _you_ from guessing for six months!” he defended. Then he waited, because, well, this was a pretty big deal and he wasn’t sure if Lydia was still a little out of it or if her reaction indicated that she really didn’t care at all. Stiles was kind of hoping for the latter, although he supposed it would be better if she magically fell back to sleep and forgot this whole thing had ever happened.

Lydia laid the glasses on her lap and stared at them as if they held the secrets of the universe. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

At first, Stiles didn’t register what she was asking. Then, when he did, all he could do was look at her incredulously. “Are you kidding? You hate me!”

Taken aback by the intensity of his words, Lydia started fiddling with the glasses and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t hate you,” she muttered.

“Could have fooled me.”

Lydia was about to say something else when the door to the hospital room opened. Stiles froze in panic, but thankfully, even while out of commission Lydia was a quick thinker. Before he knew what was happening, Lydia had grabbed hold of Stiles’ collar and pulled him into a kiss.

"Uh, excuse me... I'll give you two a moment of privacy." Stiles recognized the voice as belonging to the doctor he had met earlier. It was only once the door was firmly shut again that they both pulled back. 

Looking unaffected, Lydia quickly slipped the glasses back onto Stiles' face.

He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck and gave her a small smile. "Thanks. That was some quick thinking."

"Well, I did owe you for saving my life and all." She tilted her head in contemplation. "At least now I know why you didn't kiss me back that night."

Stiles nodded. "It's not that I didn't want to... It just wouldn't have been right."

"Speaking of which..." Lydia began, but a knock on the door interrupted her, and Stiles walked over to see the doctor waiting patiently, an amused smile on his lips.

"I apologize for interrupting, Ms. Martin." The doctor smiled over at Stiles and then looked back at the redhead lying in bed. "I was telling your boyfriend earlier that your prognosis looks great, but I wanted to do another examination now that you're awake." 

Taking the excuse for the gift that it was, Stiles started to turn to leave. "Right. Well, I'm just going to call Derek to update him. He wanted to know the second you woke up."

Knowing their boss, Lydia was unlikely to be convinced it was true, but she played along anyway to Stiles's relief. Then at the last moment, as he was making his escape, Lydia called his name. "And Stiles?" He turned to see a determined expression on her face. "We will continue this little talk of ours later."

Stiles got out of there as quickly as he could, hearing the doctor laughing even as he closed the door behind him. As he made his way to the elevator, he pulled out his phone and dialed someone who was decidedly the opposite of Derek Hale in almost every way imaginable. 

"Scott?"

“Hey! How’s Lydia doing? I just finished up and am on my way over. Still the same room number?”

“Change of plans,” Stiles said, reaching the elevator and jabbing the down arrow forcefully.

There was silence on the other end before finally Scott asked, “What did you do?” His voice wasn’t so much disappointed as resigned.

Stiles stepped into the opening elevator and was about to explain when he noticed an old lady who was also occupying said elevator. She smiled up at him and he quickly changed his words. “It’s a long story, Scotty. Meet me in the hospital lobby as soon as you can. I need your help.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my awesome beta, who will remain nameless. They only had time to do a brief check of grammar, but I know I feel a little less stressed knowing that another pair of eyes have looked over it.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


End file.
